Keziah Coffin eBook

The shanty had three rooms, one of which was given
up to the patient, one used as a living room, and,
in the third, Capen and the minister were to sleep.
Mattresses were procured, kind-hearted and sympathizing
townspeople donated cast-off tables and chairs, and
the building was made as comfortable as it could be,
under the circumstances. Sign boards, warning
strangers to keep away, were erected, and in addition
to them, the Trumet selectmen ordered ropes stretched
across the lane on both sides of the shanty.
But ropes and signs were superfluous. Trumet
in general was in a blue funk and had no desire to
approach within a mile of the locality. Even
the driver of the grocery cart, when he left the day’s
supply of provisions, pushed the packages under the
ropes, yelled a hurried “Here you be!”
and, whipping up his horse, departed at a rattling
gallop.

The village sat up nights to discuss the affair and
every day brought a new sensation. The survivors
of the San Jose’s crew, a wretched, panic-stricken
quartette of mulattos and Portuguese, were apprehended
on the outskirts of Denboro, the town below Trumet
on the bay side, and were promptly sequestered and
fumigated, pending shipment to the hospital at Boston.
Their story was short but grewsome. The brigantine
was not a Turks Islands boat, but a coaster from Jamaica.
She had sailed with a small cargo for Savannah.
Two days out and the smallpox made its appearance
on board. The sufferer, a negro foremast hand,
died. Then another sailor was seized and also
died. The skipper, who was the owner, was the
next victim, and the vessel was in a state of demoralization
which the mate, an Englishman named Bradford, could
not overcome. Then followed days and nights of
calm and terrible heat, of pestilence and all but
mutiny. The mate himself died. There was
no one left who understood navigation. At last
came a southeast gale and the San Jose drove before
it. Fair weather found her abreast the Cape.
The survivors ran her in after dark, anchored, and
reached shore in the longboat. The sick man whom
they had left in the forecastle was a new hand who
had shipped at Kingston. His name was Murphy,
they believed. They had left him because he was
sure to die, like the others, and, besides, they knew
some one would see the distress signals and investigate.
That was all, yes. Santa Maria! was it not enough?

This tale was a delicious tidbit for Didama and the
“daily advertisers,” but, after all, it
was a mere side dish compared to Mr. Ellery’s
astonishing behavior. That he, the minister of
the Regular church, should risk his life, risk dying
of the smallpox, to help a stranger and a common sailor,
was incomprehensible. Didama, at least, could
not understand it, and said so. “My soul
and body!” she exclaimed, with uplifted hands.
“I wouldn’t go nigh my own grandfather
if he had the smallpox, let alone settin’ up
with a strange critter that I didn’t know from
Adam’s cat. And a minister doin’ it!
He ought to consider the congregation, if he done
nothin’ else. Ain’t we more important
than a common water rat that, even when he’s
dyin’, swears, so I hear tell, like a ship’s
poll parrot? I never heard of such foolishness.
It beats me!”